Last Chance to Call
by geenajay
Summary: I read 'Leave Me in Your Memory' and just couldn't help myself from scribbling in my lunch hour...


Dean all but fell in through the door as it finally opened. The adrenaline of the Hunt had started to wear off as he had driven back to the motel, with the unnerving result that he had become more and more aware that the 'slight' wounds he had sustained… were anything _but_ …

He had known about the couple of broken ribs: he had felt them break when he had been thrown into the tree. He could feel the blood still running from his shoulder where the second swipe of claws had caught him, dislocating his collar bone… and from the way it was throbbing… the damage was perhaps a bit worse than he had originally thought.

And the _first_ swipe…?

Dean hadn't taken too much notice: he had been too busy fighting for his life at the time. But since he had been back in the Impala, and his heartbeat was starting to steady again… so he had slowly realised that the blood seeping through the left side of his jacket and soaking into his denims was far too much to be coming from just his shoulder…

And the pain now coursing up through his body like it was formed from fire snatched from Hell itself…?

Dean had vomited as he had tried to exit the car. And nearly blacked out from the agony caused by the stomach cramping movement.

And now, as he all but fell to the motel room floor, overbalancing in his efforts to open the door one-handed, he hurled once more, bringing up fresh blood. And bits of something black. Something black and stinking.

Shit.

Dean struggled across to the nearest bed, all but collapsing to his knees with the effort, not even noticing the trail of blood that he was leaving behind him from the left hem of his jeans. His left hand, that was now pressed to his side and stomach, wasn't enough to prevent the blood from oozing through the gaps between his fingers, and as he ripped his shirt away, he could see…

… the fresh wounds: stripes of four. Deep into his torso. Too deep. He could see the white of broken bits of bone inside. And blood.

Too much blood.

And…

Dean forced himself to turn around enough to sit on the covers of the bed and examined the bloody rips of torn flesh. But he wasn't imagining it. There were black veins as fine as spider's webs, extending and fanning out from the lacerations… and they were still expanding even as he watched… wriggling their way across his body just beneath the surface of his skin… which was turning ashen and grey behind where they had been as the life that was his body began to die behind it…

He sighed.

And his eyes didn't begin to tear up… not one little bit. Not at all.

Carefully he manoeuvred himself fully up onto the bed, trying to find a comfortable position as he leant against the headboard… and failed miserably. Dean felt that he would throw up again, but there was nothing left in his stomach to be emitted. He sat and watched as the minute lines spread out seemingly even further beneath the surface of his skin as if they were living squirming things…

He couldn't take his eyes off them even as he fumbled for his cell in his pocket. He only glanced at the screen enough to bring up the digits for the emergency services and stared at the numbers, his fingers hovering over the '911'… But then Dean paused…

None of the other people that had been attacked had survived. The medics hadn't known where to start, even the one that had seen the thread-like lines before they had vanished as if never there. The coroner had no clue as to why they had died…

And… no point in kidding himself… it was a toss-up as to whether he died from the venom in the claws before or _after_ he bled out.

"Never thought _I'd_ be your last victim…"

So instead Dean began to scroll down the contact numbers on his cell, looking for one and only one. Finding it, he stared at the screen for a long moment, his finger again hovering over the 'call' button…

But then he was sighing out loud… "Why would this time be any different? You won't pick up. You _never_ pick up. It wasn't only dad that you couldn't seem to wait to get the hell away from…"

He dropped the cell down on the bed beside him. The black lines had by now spread up towards his chest, dulling even the pain from the broken ribs as his body slowly died behind them. And the pain from his damaged shoulder was making his fingers feel numb…

And his vision was beginning to fade… Everything was going dark…

Apart from something that was across the room…

Slowly coming into focus…

A figure patiently waiting…

Dean all but blindly reached for the cell once more, desperate to try and type one last message while he could...

To the only person that had _ever_ mattered to him…

He had to try one last time, even if his brother never even bothered to read it…

'Bye, Samm…'

The thread-thin lines reached his heart. The green eyes glazed over. Dean's chest ceased its movement. His fingers stilled where they were, holding the cell.

The reaper approached, holding out welcoming hands.

The last message was never sent.

snsnsnsnnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsn

Sam was awake abruptly: his heart pounding with fear, his body coated with sweat. Ice cold dread all over him.

That nightmare had been so intense. _Too_ intense. It had felt just as vividly real as all the nightmares he had been having lately about Jess suddenly bursting into flames… although at least he could discount _them_ as mere nightmares every time with just a glance to his side: relief flooding through his whole body with the living proof in front of his own eyes at the sight of the beautiful blonde still sleeping safely in the bed next to him…

But this had been _so_ real.

And why would he suddenly dream about Dean? Guilt perhaps, from _not_ ever answering that phone? Sam always _meant_ to get back to him, even though his brother had obviously given up trying to talk to him: he hadn't called for so long…

He would. One day, he'd pick up his cell and call Dean back…

He'd surprise him.

One day.

That's what that dream must have been about, mustn't it? Guilt?

But it was so real.

It couldn't be a premonition…? Please God, not let it be a premonition…

No. He was being ridiculous. Because Jess was alive and well. It had just been a really, really horrible dream…

God, Sam missed his brother. He hadn't realised how much until he had seen Dean, even in a dream.

Even in a _nightmare_.

Even in a nightmare where his brother had died alone and scared without trying to call him because he knew that Sam wouldn't even bother to pick up…

Because Sam hadn't picked up a call from Dean for _years_ …

It _had_ been only a dream, hadn't it…?

It _couldn't_ be anything else…?

Could it?

With shaking hands, Sam found his cell from his denim's pocket, scrolled down the contacts list, and pressed the 'call' button…

Dean's cell phone began to ring.


End file.
